a swingin' affair
by bleuboxes
Summary: Clara is one hundred percent sure the universe has a personal vendetta against her. This by far the worst place she's ever worked in her life; It's cold. Death is in the air always, and it sends chills down her spine. It's damp. It's never quiet and she wants to just be in her flat instead of her rickety cot in Peggy's tent. [ww2 au sort of but not really]


The first thing she realizes is that it's dark out.

The second is that its bitterly cold and she's severely underdressed.

The third is that she's in the middle of an alpine forest and _not_ in the TARDIS on the way to wherever the hell the Doctor was planning on taking her.

She stands up and contemplates what's going on before attempting to find some sort of civilization. Despite the circumstances, she's thankful that she decided to wear the boots with her dress instead of the heels.

She thinks about yelling for the Doctor as she walks along the cold, dark snow-blanketed forest, but she decides against it. Clara knows that he's probably not even remotely close to her, and its more than likely that there will be hostile organisms lurking within the woods.

So, she treks on, wishing she had a warm jacket and pants instead of a cute dress (yet very practical dress – with pockets!) and a sweater. Whether she goes on for minutes or hours is unknown to her; there is nothing in sight but trees and rocks and snow.

She can, however, smell the stench of tobacco, hear lingering gunshots – loud enough to be concerning to her, but quiet enough to allow her to not worry too much over it. She can see boot tracks in the snow, see cigarette ashes and chewing tobacco via the moonlight in the blue-white blanket coating the ground.

She decides that following the prints is going to be her best bet at not freezing to death.

Time passes; Clara has lost feeling in her face, legs and hands. The sun is peaking up over the mountains. She needs to find a place to get warm fast or she is not going to make it out of this environment alive.

Luck does seem to be on her side for once, though. She can hear loud, sleepy voices of men coming from the direction in front of her. She hurries towards them hoping they don't stop talking and move on.

They don't; in fact, they seem to grow more awake and louder as she grows near. Their increased vivaciousness motivates her to move faster – that is until she trips on a rock and yelps as her knee cracks against the hard, cold earth. She tries to get up, but she's definitely tweaked her knee – there is no where she's walking on it without some sort of help.

She's so concerned with finding a suitable crutch that she doesn't catch that the men have stopped talking.

She's crawling in attempt to make to the nearest tree when the first pair of boots obstructs her path. She's fairly certain there's a gun being pointed at her as well, and she knows she should be pissing her pants in fear right now, but she's happy as a kid in a candy shop.

She stops crawling – in attempt to stop moving, but she can't stop shaking. She thinks she manages to say something along the lines of 'please, help me' before she clings the man's ankle and passes out.

* * *

She wakes up in a tent under a heavy earthy green blanket with her hand shackled to a cot. It isn't the worst prisoner and/or hostage situation she's ever found herself in, but that doesn't stop her from trying to get out of the cuff and explore.

She does not notice the man sitting in a chair across the tent looking rather amused at her misfortune – until he can't hold in a snort of laughter at her colorful vocabulary. then she becomes very attentive and heaves out a sigh – not before she asses this man looking after her.

While she can easily calculate that he is a possible threat, she can also discern that he is attractive – in a rugged, antique sort of way. He's got several-day old stubble. He's only sitting down, but she can tell by his stature that he's at least a foot taller than her. While he looks a tad malnourished, she can tell that he's quite muscular.

There's no way in hell that she's going to be able to fight this guy if the need be. So, if she can't beat him, might as well question the hell out of him till he grows sick and tired of her antics.

Also, she really would like to find out where and when exactly she is.

"Hello!" she smiles cheerfully, "when am I, exactly?" his grin somehow grows colder.

"Cut the shit, ma'am." His drawl is American – New York, if she remembers correctly. Perhaps she came on a bit too cheerful. That's irrelevant, however; she knows for sure that she's on Earth now, which she supposes is a _bit_ of a relief.

The last thing she needs is to be stranded on some foreign planet.

Clara then takes another good look at the man. He's in a uniform, military by the looks of it – and it looks achingly familiar to the one her gran's husband saved.

Said uniform was from the second world war.

Said Grandfather was American.

" _Fuck."_

"You're tellin' me, sweetheart." She ignores him. This is bad; this is very extremely totally _bad._ She tries to make out the name on the uniform; it doesn't look like its similar to her mother's maiden name, which is a bit of a relief.

But leave it to the TARDIS to drop her off in the middle of war torn Europe just for funnies.

Someone enters the tent while she's in her state of dismay and nods to the man watching her. He walks over to her and unhooks the cuff from her arm – hard metal replaced with a hard grip on her forearm. She doesn't even bother putting on a fight.

He leads her out of the tent and through the camp – its crowded with dirty, young men and more polished and refined older ones. It's not one of the nicer camps she's been too, but that's hardly the twentieth century's fault.

The man leads her into a fancier tent full of machines that the Doctor tinkers with when he needs a pick-me-up. If she's being honest, she knows how to use most of them (and by the looks of it, she might even be able to make an improvement).

This tent is joined by two other large ones, and she's lead to the one making up the rear.

She's told to sit in a chair and wait for whoever it is they're supposed to wait for. She debates making small talk with the pretty soldier, but thinks the better of it. He seems like a bit of a prick.

And of course, the universe isn't done royally fucking her over, because it's now that none other than Peggy Carter, Captain America, and the Science guy with a mustache that she can't quite remember the name of, enter.

"What've you got here, Barnes?" asks Carter.

"'M not sure, Ma'am."

"Well," purses Carter, "Did you ask her?"

"No, he did not!" Clara buts in.

Barnes glares at her. Carter looks genuinely intrigued. Captain America has a weird look on his face.

'Well, pray tell, love; let's start with your name. Don't be shy."

"I'm Clara Oswald."

Peggy Carter is about to ask her a series of questions of which she'll never believe the answers, so Clara decides to save them all the trouble.

"And you happen to be aware that we're in the middle of a war?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"So why was it that Captain Rogers found you in the woods so close to his campsite?"

"I got lost." She says quietly; it's not a lie, but it's a little easier than the whole truth (which she knows is going to have to come out eventually.)

Barnes and Captain Rogers look like they're about to say something about how stupid her story sounds, but before they are able to speak, Peggy Carter tells them to beat it. The mustached man is busy playing with his machines (Peggy Carter ignores him).

It's five minutes before she talks to Clara.

"I do believe you're lost." She says, "And the sooner you're able to explain to me what happened to you, the sooner we can work on getting you back to where you belong." Her tone of voice is kind, but Clara can hear the hardness to it.

She decides diving in head first is the easiest way to get this over with.

"I'm a time-traveler." She looks up to Peggy Carter only to see the woman is unpassed by this new-born fact. Clara continues, "I was with my friend, who calls himself the Doctor – a bit pretentious if you ask me, but he's a thousand-year-old alien and I doubt he'd tell me why he decided on that name. Anyway, we had just left my flat, and I think we were trying to get to New New York or something – and his TARDIS spit me up in the middle of the forest."

It's silent. Clara breathes deeply.

"I know it seems wild, and I haven't any proof of what I'm saying to be true but..."

Peggy Carter pulls out a piece of paper from her breast pocket. It's wrinkled and looks just like the pad of paper she keeps on her desk.

"This letter was delivered to me by an elderly man a few weeks before I joined the military." She unfolds the paper, "it's signed 'the Doctor' – your doctor, I assume – as the letter mentions your name a few times."

"So, he's coming for me?"

"It seems so." Peggy responds, "But it won't be for a while, so in the meantime, how'd you feel about being Howard Stark's assistant?"

"I can't complain; if you could just lead me to him, I'll be out of tour hair."

"Right here, sweetheart." The mustached man shouts from the other side of the tent. Peggy rolls her eyes.

"He's an arse, but he means well. I'll be back for you later."

She squeezes Clara's shoulder on her way out.

Perhaps this won't be so bad.

* * *

Clara is one hundred percent sure the universe has a personal vendetta against her.

This by far the worst place she's ever worked in her life; the men are awful. The army nurses are just as bad – fawning over any man that bats his lashes (Clara knows it's out of pity, but that doesn't make it any better) – and chastise her for not being nicer to the 'brave men' fighting Nazi's for her.

It's cold. Death is in the air always, and it sends chills down her spine. It's damp. It's never quiet and she wants to just be in her flat instead of her rickety cot in Peggy's tent.

The company she keeps, however, is not so bad.

She and Peggy are bosom friends; Howard is a flirt, and Clara finds it restlessly amusing when he tries to charm her into bed during the day.

It doesn't, work – _ever_ – but he keeps on trying.

Captain Rogers (or Steve, as he's told her to address him), is as kind as ever – and absolutely enamored with Peggy. He's not usually around too often, but when he is, he takes timeout of whatever he does to visit her (and Howard).

She's fairly certain Peggy's informed him of her predicament; but if he actually knows or not doesn't matter.

Barnes – the handsome soldier she's had the misfortune of being with, however, makes it very known to her that he knows not of her being out of time. He usually flanks Steve when he comes to visit. He's always looking at her like she's killed his dog; like she's going to murder him in her sleep.

Steve often apologizes for his friend's coldness. Clara tells him not to worry about it; it's not his fault Barnes is an arsehole.

Besides, compared to the rest of the men in this godforsaken army camp, Barnes is a daydream.

(Steve just laughs; Howard says something lewd in return, and Clara hits him upside the head with a smile)

* * *

It's been nine months.

There has been nary a sign of the Doctor, and nary an end to the war (which, well, Clara knows that it's not going to end for at least another year and a half).

There are less questions about her now; she's more or less accepted as 'Stark's girl', which is something that usually warrants her "people are not property" spiel, but such a term gets her out of the gawking glances of the hungry eyes of the soldiers.

It's not so bad, really.

She works with machines; she helps Howard with the extraterrestrial tech that Hydra _somehow_ managed to get their mitts on.

She never really prided herself on her scientific intellect, but traveling with the Doctor really did seem to help her out; not only does she know what she's talking about, but sometimes she has an even better understanding of what's going on that Howard bloody Stark does.

All in all, it's not terrible; and she thinks, that she's going to miss them all very much when she finally leaves.

* * *

There's a bar in the village closest to their camp. Peggy usually goes to celebrate with the Howely's when they return from a successful mission. Clara's fairly certain that there is dancing involved, and while she'd love to get out of this camp for once, she has no idea how to swing, and she'd rather not embarrass herself or disappoint the poor chap that asks her to dance.

She says no every time.

That is – every time until Steve goads her to go along as well. She can't say no – he's got the face of a Labrador and, well, she hasn't seen him in a while.

She says yes.

Steve has the brightest of smiles on his face when he walks away to go debrief with the general, that she almost forgets that she can't go dancing in her government issued uniform.

" _Peggy_!" she shouts as she sprints across the muddy camp in search of her friend. Some of the newer men look at her incredulously, but most of them know that seeing her run across the camp yelling like a banshee is a common occurrence.

Peggy is in the tent that they share when Clara finds her.

"Steve invited me t'go dancing tonight, and I just _can't_ go in my uniform."

"I'll find you something." Peggy has a gleam in her eye, "Give me twenty minutes. I've got some cosmetics if you want to borrow anything."

Clara kisses her cheek as she passes by on her way to exit the tent.

While Peggy is gone, Clara applies a nice red shade to her lips, and makes her eyes pop with eyeliner. She pins her hair up into a nice roll at the nape of her neck, and waits for Peggy's return.

Peggy makes it back to the tent – green dress in hand and sweat on her brow.

"You have no idea the trouble I went through to borrow a goddamn dress." Clara raises a brow, "We both owe our first borns to Bonny."

"Is she the one with the –"

"That's her."

"She's a _doll_." Clara dotes, as Peggy holds up the dress, "and my first born will have a good home with her and her partner."

"Well, are you gonna stare at it all night, or are you gonna put the thing on?"

"if you would _hand it to me_ , then I'd put it on, for Christ sake."

Peggy holds out her hand. Clara grabs the dress greedily.

Clara puts the thing on while Peggy pretties herself (not that she needs it; the woman's a fucking bombshell without any product; but there's no talking Peggy Carter out of anything, so Clara keeps her mouth shut).

Clara manages to get herself into the emerald green dress – it fits her flawlessly (she makes a mental note to get Bonny something when she goes into town). She feels like something out of dream; green and busty and ready to dance with a handsome soldier; it's something out of a little girl's fantasy.

And then there's Peggy; Peggy, who's absolutely dashing in red, looking sexy and mysterious in a number that Clara would kill for.

Peggy, who blushes when Clara tells her she looks bangin', is dressed to kill. (Steve better be prepared, because her friend is serving looks.)

"You look lovely as well, darling." Laughs Peggy.

"'M not gonna look so lovely in a bit." She grumbles.

"Why's that?"

"I don't know how to dance."

Peggy nearly topples over with laughter; Clara pouts.

"Yeah, laugh it up, pal; you won't be laughing when Steve takes me out for a spin and I kill him with my atrocious dance moves."

Peggy is no longer laughing (Clara grins wickedly.)

* * *

The bar is bigger than Clara expected; It's smokier and more crowded than she would like, but she can't complain.

And, with the exception of three or four other women, Peggy and Clara are the only respectable ladies in this establishment.

Another way of expressing this would be that all eyes are on the two of them as they walk into the place.

The attention is not unwanted, for the most part – it does make Clara a little uncomfortable, but she follows her friends lead and holds her head up high (like she's some intergalactic princess or something).

There's a backroom with a piano and a smaller bar; there's laughter everywhere – you wouldn't think that there is a world war going on by the happiness ghosting these pained men's eyes.

Clara feels like she's in a pocket universe; it's a very strange vibe.

Peggy keeps walking to the bar, however – Clara's fairly certain she's spotted Steve and his merry bunch of men.

They say hello, of course – Clara finally can get introduced (properly) to the rest of Steve's friends. They're all wonderfully nice to her (even treat her like the lady she isn't) – and they easily make conversation about camp gossip and how stupid Steve is over Peggy when the two of them are out on the floor.

Honestly, her evening is going swimmingly until Barnes walks back over from the bar with drinks for the table. The bastard drops the drinks off and sits down without even saying hello to her.

Granted, the two of them are by no means friends, but they have met, and you say hello to people that your acquainted with.

Dugan, at least, has some manners left on him, and humorously (with much profanity, mind you,) chastises Barnes for being a prick.

"It's quite alright," she smiles with mirth in her glance as she eyes up Barnes, "The Sergeant and I are not on the best of terms; it's been like this since he cuffed me to a chair – really no hard feelings."

"Besides," she continues, "there are prettier faces and more polite gentlemen in this fine establishment – such as yourselves, for me to chat up."

The Commandos laugh; Barnes scowls and takes her bait.

"This is the army, sweetheart, I'm as gentlemanly as it's gonna get."

"Prove it." She smiles sweet as a cherry. Barnes's face grows a wolfish grin.

Clara grins right back.

"How's your dance card?"

"Surprisingly empty." Clara is not surprised by this, but Barnes doesn't need to know that.

"Not anymore," He addresses the table, "If you all'd excuse me, I've got to entertain a lady."

She offers him her hand, and he helps her out of her sat and leas her to the dance floor. The band is playing a tune she feels like she should be familiar with, but she's not even going to try and convince herself she knows what it is.

He places her hand on her hip and his other hand in her own, and it's now that the panic sets in. As much as she doesn't like Barnes, she wouldn't wish death by her dancing upon anyone.

"I can't dance" she blurts, bashfully but also, with a different manner – one she's unable to place. She can't bother to look at his face; she knows he's going to say something awful and mean and terrible to make her feel like a pile of shit instead of the beauty she feels like.

"Follow my lead." He mumbles into her hair. It's strangely intimate and not at all what she was expecting.

"This is a terrible idea and if I kill you with my awful dancing, it's completely your fault."

He chuckles, but not a chastising one – its deep and rumbly and something that's genuine.

If she's not careful she might end up falling into bed with him.

"You'll be fine, doll."

He starts leading her around the room; she's struggling and looking at her feet. Her tongue is poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. He lets out a small huff of breath and lets go of her hand to tilt her face up from her feet gently so that she's now looking directly at him.

"Eyes up here, love."

"It's Clara. Clara Oswald." She looks into his eyes; they're very pretty and very easy to get lost in. She soon forgets to worry about her footing.

"James Barnes." He introduces, kissing her hand before placing it back in the right spot.

He leads her around for the rest of the night; Clara's sure the smile doesn't wear off her face for days to come.

* * *

Weeks past, James somehow undergoes a complete personality turn around.

He's charming, and witty and doesn't walk on eggshells around her. (She finds out that he does, in fact, know about her situation and often asks her about space and things of that nature. She thinks it's cute that he's such a nerd, not that she'd tell him that. He's got no idea that she's absolutely over the moon for him).

He takes her dancing when he comes back from his missions – she's improving slowly but surely. He tells her about his sister, about his mother, about this little boy from Brooklyn, New York that he'd follow to the ends of the Earth, about the countless women he charmed over in his youth.

She tells him about the Doctor, and about her travels and her students; sometimes she forgets she's a woman out of her time. It feels like she has forever here, with this army, with these friends, with this man.

She's honestly starting to hope the Doctor takes his sweet old time with rescuing her.

* * *

"James," she mumbles into his chest as the sound of shouts and gunshots go on around them.

"Mmmh?"

"I think I love you."

He shifts himself so that they're face to face on her already too small cot.

"Me too, sweetheart." He kisses her quickly on her forehead, on each eyelid, he cheeks, her lips, her chin, before pulling her close to him.

It's quiet for a moment.

"When this war is over," she says with a conviction (she knows that there's only a few more months left of fighting before they get to go home, where ever home may be), "Come traveling with me; take me dancing in the Cosmos – the Doctor knows a place."

"Sounds like a plan to me; now get some sleep, Doll. Howard's got loads of shit for you to do tomorrow."

"G'night, James."

"G'night, Clara."

* * *

Two months later, James falls off the train.

A week after that, Steve puts down the Red Skulls plane in the Ocean.

The war is over; Peggy and Clara know they should be happy, but they don't have it within them.

There is still no sign of the Doctor.

(If he knows what's good for him, he'll hurry his arse up and rescue Clara before she becomes desperate enough to create a stupid plan he'll never approve of.)

* * *

"No, absolutely not."

"Oh, Okay," Clara yells as she storms around the console room, "it's a _fixed point_ when someone I care about needs rescuing but when it's _River Song_ or bloody go-knows who but we were pals when I was four hundred ninety-three, it's okay to tear apart the universe."

"It's bad enough we're in a pocket universe -it's nearly impossible for the TARDIS to preform something as extensive as that and make it out of here in one piece."

"I don't care," she all but growls, "I have been stuck here for the better part of two years – in the middle of war torn Europe, mind you. I have lost everyone I care about in one way or another, and I think that you owe me – _the bloody_ _universe_ owes me this."

"Clara, I -"

"No," She leans against the railing, shutting her eyes with her sudden burst of anger, "You _will_ save James, and you _will_ save Steve. You couldn't save Danny, but there's a chance you can save my friends. _Please_ , Doctor."

He looks at her with those old, ancient all to understanding eyes, ad nods.

"Go get Peggy. Tell her to pack her things."

She lets out a breath that's been stuck with in her for all too long.

"Thank you."

She rushes in for a hug, he's stiff at first, but it's okay.

She gets the message across just fine.

They rescue Steve first. (and by we, it's meant that the Doctor pulls him out of the Ocean and into the TARDIS. Peggy takes him to one of the many bedrooms aboard the ship and she doesn't see the two of them for at least a few days (she can't really be sure of exactly how long it is).

Retrieving James safely proves to be a challenge. They opt for materializing around his body after he hits the snow at the bottom of the cliff. This prove less challenging, but a little more life threatening. Clara isn't aware she's crying until the Doctor ushers her away from his body.

He's not dead.

He's missing an arm, but that's a small price to pay (and nothing a little un-earthly medical technology can't fix).

* * *

Six weeks later, James is as good as new, and he and Clara are swinging (among other things) across the Cosmos.

Of course, that doesn't last long; hostile organisms always pick the best times of Clara's life to pop in and say "mass murder."

(Lucky enough, James is just as sensible as her, grabs her hand, and smiles.

"Run."

She's never been more in love.)

* * *

 **im listening to Benny Goodman and wondering what the hell am i doing with my life bc i have a million and one things to do and instead i've been finishing this goddamn fic for 5 hours.**

 **hope its okay.**  
 **title (as usual lmao) is from a frank sinatra album bc i am not original in the slightest and it it l8 and i have work tomorrow.**

 **reviews/follows/favorites make my day so pls help a sister out**


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